


Fell in Love with a Ghost

by mikhailomeddows



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Non-graphic descriptions of death, Supernatural Elements, ghost!ian, mentions of bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 07:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14468199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikhailomeddows/pseuds/mikhailomeddows
Summary: The furniture was still in place, as if someone was already residing there. There was still a stale box of cereal the saleswoman had forgot to remove from one of the cabinets for God’s sake. The electrical wiring was faulty as fuck, lights always cutting out or flickering obnoxiously, but Mickey didn’t have the money or time to fix the problem. Footsteps tended to emit from the upstairs landing most nights, heavy and fast, as if someone was running. And sometimes his keys or his wallet would end up somewhere he didn’t originally place it, usually on the floor.





	Fell in Love with a Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully this is interesting because I have no idea where this idea came from.
> 
> title based off the song Fell in Love with a Girl by The White Stripes.

Mickey knew this house wasn’t normal as soon as he’d bought it- but fuck, it was cheap, it was still in the south side and it held no memories of his father attempting to beat him to death with his (luckily) empty pistol.

But there was still something off about it. The furniture was still in place, as if someone was already residing there. There was still a stale box of cereal the saleswoman had forgot to remove from one of the cabinets for God’s sake. The electrical wiring was faulty as fuck, lights always cutting out or flickering obnoxiously, but Mickey didn’t have the money or time to fix the problem. Footsteps tended to emit from the upstairs landing most nights, heavy and fast, as if someone was running. And sometimes his keys or his wallet would end up somewhere he didn’t originally place it, usually on the floor.

So, Mickey came to a couple of conclusions. One, the house was old and cheap- that would explain the lights and the “footsteps” (house settling noises). Two, he was losing his mind and none of the situations he’d observed or heard had happened or three, he was being haunted by a ghost who liked to annoy the fuck out of him.

Mickey tried not to dwell too much on that last one because, as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was terrified of the concept of ghosts. Dead souls who could wonder through walls and fuck with his belongings and mind? No thank you.

But still, Mickey stayed in the house because anything was better than living in between the four peeling walls of his old home, where every corner held a few or more traumatic memories.

And this leads him up to now, jolting awake from yet another nightmare about being shot in his sleep to the sound of rummaging in his kitchen. He groaned as he attempted to slow down his racing pulse, before he reached out blindly for the pistol he kept on his bedside table.

He made his was downstairs slowly, his pistol loaded and ready in his tight grip. He peeked around the wall before he tiptoed down the last step and saw a figure of someone rummaging around his cupboards.

Still wary, Mickey kept the gun loaded and ready, but released his deathly tight grip, because the figure looked about 18 and as intimidating as a bunny rabbit.

Mickey leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, before he flicked on the light, watching in amusement as the figure froze completely.

“You wanna explain to me why you’re rummaging through my cupboards?” Mickey asked, his voice still slightly gruff from being prematurely awoken.

Slowly, the figure- a boy, Mickey assumed it was a boy- turned around, and Mickey was met with wide green eyes and pale- almost grey- skin.

“You can see me?” The boy whispered, eyes still wide. Mickey raised an eyebrow in response, confused and yet, still amused.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey replied like it was obvious. Of course he could see the boy trying to mess up his cupboards more than they already were. “And you still haven’t answered my question, why are you rummaging through my cupboards?”

“Um, I don’t really have an excuse other than I wanted to scare you?” He said it like a question, and flinched back slightly after he’d said it, as if he’d expected Mickey to hit him. And, honestly, if Mickey wasn’t so confused and tired, he probably would have.

“You wanted to scare me,” Mickey deadpanned, face expressionless.

“Well, that’s what I thought I was doing when I was running around upstairs,” The boy started. “I was gonna do that again, but I thought, why not spice it up a little!” He said with a nervous laugh and a sad attempt at jazz hands, which he quickly dropped when he saw Mickey unamused face.

“So, you’ve been inside my house before?” Mickey asked, slightly uneasy, but tried not to let himself show it. But fuck, if this kid had been in his house before then who knows what he could have done or what information he could have got. And if he wasn’t lying about running around upstairs and being the cause of the footsteps he’d been hearing; the boy had been in his house whilst Mickey was wide awake.

The kid smiled slightly, head tilted like an animal inspecting something new. “Oh Mickey,” he started. “I’ve been in this house long before you even moved here.” And with that he glided, fucking glided, like feet not touching the ground glided, into the living room and disappeared.

\--

As much as Mickey would loath to admit it, he’d started sleeping with his light on. Somehow, he’d worked himself into such a state after seeing that boy disappear into thin air so whenever he enveloped his room in darkness, his brain would play tricks on him, like imagining furniture or a dark figure moving. Eventually, he’d lost so much sleep he succumbed to being a pussy and refused to switch off his light.

Like tonight. He’d managed to fall asleep in the harsh, yellow light of his room, but still awoke with the same reoccurring nightmare he’d been having since he moved to this house- shot in the head as he lay in his bed, asleep. But tonight, he awoke to a grinning face above him.

“What the fuck!” He yelled, scrambling against his headboard, pulling his quilt underneath his chin as if it was some kind of shield. And there was the boy from the other night, floating in mid-air and posing as if he was lying on some kind of vintage lounge.

“Hiya Mickey,” he said, still grinning. “I see my plan of scaring you worked.”

Slowly, Mickey allowed himself to relax but put on a faux air of confidence. “How so?” He asked, looking the floating boy in his green, green eyes.

The boy waved a hand around the room nonchalantly. “You leave your lights on now.”

Mickey didn’t reply, just scowled at the boy and absentmindedly rearranged his quilt.

“I’m Ian by the way. Ian Gallagher.” The boy, Ian, held out his hand expectantly. Mickey eyed it cautiously, noticing how the blue-green veins stuck out almost obnoxiously bright against his monochrome, grey skin. Reluctantly, Mickey went to shake his hand, and wasn’t nearly as surprised as he should have been when his hand went straight through Ian’s. Ian just grinned. 

“So” Mickey started, elongating the vowel. “I’m just gonna state the obvious here,” Ian nodded, resting his head on his fist (he was still floating, by the way). “You’re a ghost.” Mickey didn’t phrase it as a question, but Ian still answered. Mickey got the impression that he liked to speak a lot damn quickly.

“Yep!” Ian exclaimed, popping the p. He moved so he was sat cross legged but was still hovering slightly above Mickey’s bed covers. “Our home was invaded in ‘82 by some drug dealers our dad didn’t pay, and we were all shot in our sleep.” He explained it as if it was no big deal, like getting shot was an everyday sort of thing.

“Shit,” Mickey breathed out. Ian just smiled and shook his head lightly in response. A silence enveloped them quickly, neither tense nor comfortable, before Mickey broke it. “So, you’re the reason I get those nightmares then,” he joked, lifting his eyebrow.

Ian winced apologetically with a shrug. “Yeah, sorry, it’s the bed.” Mickey’s eyes widened comically, much to Ian’s amusement, and he scrambled off the bed. He pointed at the bed, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to get words out. “Oh, yeah, I was shot on this bed. Bullet went straight through the back of my head,” Ian punctuated that by pointing swiftly from the back of his head to the front, imitating the bullet. “See.” He turned around and for the first time Mickey noticed the thick, tangled and clotted red in the centre of Ian’s ginger hair. Mickey could only stare in morbid fascination as Ian poked a finger into the gaping red hole and managed to withdraw it as clean as it was the minute it entered. Ian was grinning as he turned back around, but Mickey was still in a state of shock, his arm still limply pointing at the bed.

“What the fuck,” Mickey eventually sighed, sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands. Ian only laughed.

\--

“You mentioned last night that all of you got shot. That mean that there was more than you living here?” Mickey asked as he joined Ian at the kitchen table (apparently, he could touch furniture and people when he wanted to but, as Mickey had quickly learnt, he liked being a little shit). He quickly shovelled a spoonful of slightly stale cereal into his mouth as Ian began talking.

“Yeah, 3 brothers, 2 sisters. The youngest was two when it happened,” Mickey winced around his spoon in sympathy. “I don’t see them that often anymore, only really the anniversary of our deaths. They all just accepted the situation and moved on to somewhere better, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to do that,” for the first time since Mickey had spoken to Ian, he seemed mellow, almost sad. It was obvious he missed his siblings by the faraway look in his eyes. “Although it can get boring here, I kind of like it. Plus, I haven’t been dead an awful long time so the whole immortality thing hasn’t truly sunken in.”

“Why would you want to stay here though? Surly you’d want to be with your siblings ‘somewhere better’” Ian smiled slightly at the table at Mickey’s comment, lightly dragging his pale fingers across the wood.

“When I was alive I was diagnosed bipolar, so my life wasn’t all that great. I refused to take my meds for a while and experienced some pretty bad mania and depression under this roof, so I guess I want to metaphorically fight off all those demons before I move on.” He was still smiling as he spoke, eyes locked on his fingers dragging across the table, but there was something melancholy about it. “Plus, it’s not like I never see them,” he perked up. “Like I said, they come back on the anniversary of the shooting and we have a kind of ‘ghostly party’ I suppose.” Ian laughed, and Mickey found himself smiling too.

“That’s messed up, man.” Mickey chuckled, before he picked up another spoonful of cereal.

\--

Here’s the thing. Mickey and Ian had known each other and spoke frequently now for at least 6 months- most of the time Ian just stayed around the house to annoy Mickey. They’d gotten along relatively well, with Mickey telling Ian about the latest music in the charts (not that he listened to the charts, of course) and latest 21st century inventions, and Ian filled him in on everything he was into when he was still breathing. And yeah, okay, Mickey found the boy almost painfully attractive with his bright ginger hair, large green eyes and cheeky smile, but he never actually considered the fact he’d _like_ the ghost. But Mickey had had crushes before, granted they hadn’t lasted as long as this one had, but he knew what they felt like. The racing pulse, the want to be around them as much as possible and the undeniable attraction. And as fucked up as the situation was- the kid was dead for gods sake- Mickey was relatively quick to accept his rapidly growing crush.

Which leads us to now. Mickey was watching Ian fuss around his house, organising things “just right” as he kept saying for the anniversary of his death and, thus, the day he gets to see his family. He couldn’t keep the adoring smile off his face as he watched Ian move the wilted flower pot again and again on the window sill, leaning back every time with a finger tapping his chin to assess his work.

“It looks fine, Ian, stop fussing,” Mickey finally said, coming up behind Ian and laying a hand on his shoulder (Ian had been allowing him to physically touch him more and more often recently). Ian immediately sagged under Mickey’s tattooed hand and stumbled his way back towards the sofa, collapsing into it.

“I’m sorry I just get fussy around this time of year. I wanna make it look just like it did before we died,” Ian whined. Somehow Ian talking so blatantly about his death still made Mickey uneasy, even though it happened so often, but it was just the thought of someone killing another family for such cruel and selfish reasons got to Mickey (he knew it was probably left-over trauma from his father, but he tried not to dwell on that too often).

Mickey stroked his fingers up and down Ian’s arm soothingly, almost shocked by his own actions, but he was so used to doing things with or around Ian he would have never done before it was barely a blip on his radar of “woah Mickey, you’re acting a little too gay here.” Ian leaned into the contact contently, before he bolted up again and floated up the stairs, yelling something about “Carl’s Posters!”

Eventually, the day came when Ian’s family would arrive. He’d woken Mickey up especially early, even though they weren’t due to turn up until 3:13am (the time of the killing) and yelled at him to put on something nice. Mickey complied, obviously- Ian could ask him to jump off a cliff and he probably would. The time passed quickly, with Ian fussing around the house and making Mickey buy certain foods to fill the cupboards and fridges (even though ghosts don’t eat but Ian insisted it had to be _perfect_ ). Soon, Ian was waiting on the upstairs landing, his pale hands gripping Mickey’s, his eyes scanning everyone’s bedrooms. There was hardly any warning before a ginger haired young girl came barrelling out of one of the rooms and crashing into Ian’s body, ripping his cold hands from Mickey’s grip, but Ian was doing that laugh where he was also kind of crying out of happiness, and he looked beautiful, so Mickey allowed it. Soon, more people emerged from their bedrooms, relatively slower than the original girl, but they all had matching grin’s. Three boys emerged from the room Mickey knew was Ian’s brothers, one looked around twelve and had a bullet wound on his upper chest, another looked maybe a year older than Ian, his wound on the side of his head, and was carrying a youg boy, who’s wound seemed to match Ian’s. Eventually, a young woman came out from the last bedroom (one Mickey had used mainly as storage until Ian started rearranging the house). She had numerous bullet wounds on her legs and lower body, with the fatal blow obvious on her forehead. From the stories Ian had told Mickey, his older sister, Fiona, had attempted to fight off the home invaders to protect her siblings even as they fired towards her, but she was unarmed and consequently lost the battle. Mickey still held great respect for her though.

Mickey stood and observed the siblings hug and talk to (well, more yell at) Ian with an amused smiled. They were all continuously touching Ian in one way or another, as if they couldn’t believe he was real, and they were all praising Ian on keeping the house the same. They didn’t even notice Mickey until Ian eventually introduced him, and at once six deathly pale faces turned towards him. He waved awkwardly in greeting, noticing how Ian attempted to muffle his laughter behind his hand and shot him a glare.

“He can see us?” The ginger haired girl asked Ian, but her focus stayed purely on Mickey. Ian hummed out a happy affirmative in response, and that started another roar of chatter from the siblings, all of whom where speculating about Mickey from him being a Medium to him being dead himself (that one made him chuckle a little).

“Have you seen ghosts before?” The oldest boy eventually asked, adjusting the toddler on his hip as he spoke.

“Not that I know of,” Mickey replied with a frown, frantically searching his mind for instances in which he may have encountered a ghost. After his mum passed away when he was nine, he swore he used to hear the little hymn she used to sing to him at night before he fell asleep around the house sometimes, just whispers of a couple lyrics, never the full song, but he soon forgot about it after it stopped. He pegged it down to him mourning the loss of his mother, and never thought about it again. Other than that, though, there wasn’t much else he’d experienced- besides Ian of course. The boy just shrugged in response with a contemplative frown.

“Oh! I have to introduce you properly to my family, Mickey!” Ian exclaimed, shuffling his way out of the clinging arms of his siblings and standing beside Mickey, a hand on the back of his neck, his cold thumb rubbing the tiny hairs at the bottom of Mickey’s head causing Goosebumps to trickle down his arms. Fiona and the eldest boy’s eyes zeroed in on Ian’s hand. “This is Debbie,” He started, pointing to the ginger haired girl who had first erupted from her room. She waved shyly before she fiddled with the frayed ends of her cardigan sleeves, and Mickey noticed the large exit wound on her chest. “That’s Carl.” The twelve-year-old boy smirked at Mickey with a head nod, crossing his arms over his chest. “Lip, and the little guy’s Liam.” Lip inclined his head in acknowledgment and the toddler on his hip waved happily. “And, of course, Fiona,” Fiona held her hand out for Mickey to shake and, this time, his hand didn’t go straight through.

Eventually, they all migrated downstairs, and Mickey let the siblings catch up in the living room as he observed from the kitchen, nursing a beer. They all spoke animatedly, about what, Mickey had no clue, but he heard his name mentioned a couple times. Somehow, they never got bored of speaking, but, Mickey supposed, only having a day a year to talk after spending years and years together would do that. Something Mickey also observed was how they never mentioned anything about Ian crossing over with them. It gave Mickey the impression they’d all accepted that Ian needed to stay in this house for a little while longer and they were considerate of that, which made Mickey smile bitterly over his longing for a family that was so accepting.

“He likes you,” Mickey’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice beside him, causing his to whip his head in that direction and come face to face with brown eyes and freckles.

“hmm?” Mickey hummed around his beer bottle, trying to play off how startled he was by the little ghost girl.

“Ian likes you,” she reiterated, floating upwards until she sat on the kitchen counter. “He keeps mentioning you and his eyes keep flickering over to the kitchen and, considering we’re dead, there’s nothing much a kitchen can actually offer anymore.” She chuckled and even Mickey cracked a smile at that, but it quickly fell after he understood the implications of what Debbie had said.

“okay, so if he did like me, which is pretty damn unlikely,” He held up a single finger as Debbie opened her mouth to speak, which shut her up effectively. “surely there’s some kind of law about a human dating a ghost.”

“Nope!” Debbie said, popping the p. She reminded him quite a lot of Ian actually, especially their speech patterns. “I looked this stuff up after I died just in case and there’s no laws prohibiting it. There’s even been some accounts of people actually doing it, which gave me a bit of hope.” She sighed with a dreamy smile and a faraway look. Mickey snorted in response. “I just wanted to tell you because Ian deserves to be happy here if he decides to stay and even when he was alive I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so gone for someone.” And with that, she floated back over to the living room and re-joined the conversation as if she had never left in the first place.

Mickey caught Ian’s eye a little while later and he raised his nearly empty beer bottle towards him before finishing it with a smirk. Ian smiled brightly back, green eyes shining.

\--

Mickey watched from his doorway as the siblings said goodbye, all hugging Ian tightly with tears in their eyes as they made their ways back to their respective bedrooms at exactly 3:13am the next day, and eventually had to knock Ian out of his daze and walk him downstairs with soft words of encouragement. Ian wasn’t quite right for the next few days, always spacing out and becoming impossible to physically touch, sometimes just disappearing into thin air like he did those many months ago, but eventually he was back to his normal, bubbly self.

It was a perhaps a week after the siblings left that Mickey remembered what Debbie had said about Ian _liking_ him. Slowly, he started to notice little things Ian would do that helped confirm what she had said, like he would sometimes already be looking at Mickey when he’d turn to look at Ian, or he’d pretend he wasn’t looking (and, if Ian could blush, Mickey would assume he’d be bright red in those moments.) sometimes, he would let his cold fingers brush against Mickey’s thigh or the back of his neck and sure, it could have been an accident, but Mickey always saw Ian look in his direction as soon as he felt the chilling digits against his flesh.

And maybe these little incidences made Mickey’s insides a little warmer than before or caused him to blush high on his cheeks and to the tips of his toes and maybe the thought of Ian liking him back sent this humming through his veins like he was on a constant adrenaline rush, but there was still the fact Ian was literally dead holding him back, even if there were accounts of relationships between the living in the undead. Eventually, Mickey decided he’d have to ignore his feelings and try to make them dwindle down into nothing, even though he knew how difficult that would be.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

Mickey and Ian were sat side by side watching something shitty on the newish TV Mickey had bought with the money he’d saved from his part time job when it happened. Mickey had noticed how jittery Ian had been all night, his grey fingers tapping against his worn jean clad legs and his eyes always flickered from the TV to Mickey, but he didn’t ask about it, if Ian wanted to tell him, he’d tell him. Just as Mickey began to actually start enjoying the TV, he heard a breathy “Fuck it,” from behind him and within a couple of seconds he had a lapful of Ian Gallagher and cold- not the same icy cold that emitted from his fingertips but still cold- lips against his. He didn’t even hesitate before he opened his mouth and tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss, his hands gripping the hem of Ian’s frayed ACDC shirt. All too quickly, Ian moved away from Mickey slightly, leaving him panting and chasing his cold, cold lips.

“I’m not kissing you again unless you actually want this,” Ian whispered as Mickey watched him through heavily lidded eyes with flushed cheeks. “Like, actually want to be with me. I don’t think I could stand staying here if you don’t actually want to be with me.” He sounded almost fragile as he spoke, eyes flickering over Mickey’s face.

“I want to be with you,” Mickey breathed out, blue eyes flickering up to meet green. “cross my heart, hope to die,” Ian laughed loudly at the comment before he smashed their lips together again in a kiss that left them so, so happy.

\--

Years passed with Mickey and Ian in that house, years full of so much love. Mickey eventually appreciated the arrival of Ian’s siblings as much as Ian and even got a little misty eyed at 3:13am when they all had to go back. And sure, there were many fights that erupted between Mickey and Ian, given that they were both incredibly stubborn, but they were always settled, both knowing they could never go to bed with the weight of each other’s words hanging heavy above them. And of course, Mickey aged whilst Ian stayed young and beautiful. There were times when Mickey practically begged Ian to cross over and forget him because of his own insecurities, but Ian shut him down every time with featherlight kisses to his slowly wrinkling skin saying that even if they weren’t still necessarily in an intimate relationship so much anymore, the love they felt for each other compensates that. And, as Ian would always reiterate every time Mickey let his insecurities consume him, once he died he could go back to any age he wished, as long as he had already lived through those years. Mickey honestly didn’t know if that was bullshit or not, but he pretty much believed everything Ian said.

And so, Ian was there as his body gradually gave up on him, breathing becoming so much more of a chore and walking being near on impossible. He was there, holding Mickey’s wrinkled hand as he drew in his final breaths, and he was there when Mickey woke up in a body that was so much lighter than what he had felt in years and significantly less wrinkled, with his wire-y grey hairs thick and black once more. And they were both there, clasping each other’s hands as they left their home and crossed over together, immediately greeted by five bubbly Gallagher’s and the strong chorus of the hymn his mum used to sing to him before he went to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! Leave a Kudos and Comment if you enjoyed?  
> Twitter: mikhailomeddows  
> 


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